Noiselessly we step across the apartment of our landlord
and landlady. Chrysantheme drags me by the hand,
and I allow myself to be led. There they are,
sleeping in a row under their blue gauze tent, lighted
by the night-lamps burning before the altars of their
ancestors. Ha! I observe that they are arranged
in an order which might give rise to gossip. First
comes Mademoiselle Oyouki, very taking in her attitude
of rest! Then Madame Prune, who sleeps with her
mouth wide open, showing her rows of blackened teeth;
from her throat arises an intermittent sound like the
grunting of a sow. Oh! poor Madame Prune! how
hideous she is!! Next, M. Sucre, a mere mummy
for the time being. And finally, at his side,
last of the row, is their servant, Mademoiselle Dede!
The gauze hanging over them throws reflections as
of the sea upon them; one might suppose them victims
drowned in an aquarium. And withal the sacred
lamps, the altar crowded with strange Shintoist symbols,
give a mock religious air to this family tableau.
‘Honi soit qui mal y pense’, but why is
not that maidservant rather laid by the side of her
mistresses? Now, when we on the floor above offer
our hospitality to Yves, we are careful to place ourselves
under our mosquito-net in a more correct style!
One corner, which as a last resort we inspect, inspires
me with a certain amount of apprehension. It
is a low, mysterious loft, against the door of which
is stuck, as a thing no longer wanted, a very old,
pious image Kwanon with the thousand arms, and Kwanon
with the horses’ head, seated among clouds and
flames, both horrible to behold with their spectral
grins.
We open the door, and Chrysantheme starts back uttering
a fearful cry. I should have thought the robbers
were there, had I not seen a little gray creature,
rapid and noiseless, rush by her and disappear; a young
rat that had been eating rice on the top of a shelf,
and, in its alarm, had dashed in her face.
CHAPTER XLVIII
UNUSUAL HOSPITALITY
September 16th.
Yves has let fall his silver whistle in the ocean,
the whistle so absolutely indispensable for the manoeuvres;
and we search the town all day long, followed by Chrysantheme
and Mesdemoiselles La Neige and La Lune, her sisters,
in the endeavor to find another.
It is, however, very difficult to find such a thing
in Nagasaki; above all, very difficult to explain
in Japanese what is a sailor’s whistle of the
traditional shape, curved, and with a little ball at
the end to modulate the trills and the various sounds
of official orders. For three hours we are sent
from shop to shop; at each one they pretend to understand
perfectly what is wanted and trace on tissue-paper,
with a paint-brush, the addresses of the shops where
we shall without fail meet with what we require.
Away we go, full of hope, only to encounter some fresh
mystification, till our breathless djins get quite
bewildered.
Copyrights
Madame Chrysantheme — Complete from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
